Read Online Race for the Dying by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online

have much in common.”
    â€œI look forward to meeting him,” Thomas said. “I have him to thank for rescuing me from my most recent embarrassment, but he didn’t remain in the room long enough for us to exchange words.”
    â€œHe’s a busy man, Thomas. I know he’ll welcome your assistance. He and Alvi have more to do with the clinic’s success than anything I do. Rest easy, young man.” He nodded good night, and pulled the door closed as he left the room.

Chapter Nine
    The house was dark and silent when Thomas awoke on his right side, his right hand balled under his head. The head wound both ached and itched, and the young man eased onto his back.
    The gaslight had been turned off. The outline of the window gradually coalesced, but with no street lamps, the village was as dark as the inside of a closet. After a moment, Thomas realized that the door of his room was open. He could see the outline of the jamb, highlighted by a gas lamp left on far down the hallway.
    Moving with the utmost care, he pushed himself farther upright, sitting crooked to favor his left hip and ribs, supporting himself on his hands. He sat thus for a long time. To feel his pulse thumping at the same time from head and hip was an odd sensation. Shifting his weight again, he maneuvered his right leg over the edge of the bed and paused, trying to calm his breathing. The pain in his ribs was sharp and stinging, more acute than it should be.
    It seemed so simple to just slide down, taking the weight on his right foot. Simple enough—but exactly the way he’d ended up in a fetal position in the corner after his first excursion.
    For a time he sat on the edge of the bed, considering his predicament. “Returning were as tedious as go o’er,” he whispered, but Macbeth was no help.
    From somewhere deep in the house came a deep, harrumphing cough. Thomas could picture John Haines tossing in bed, his sleep floating in a sea of brandy. The window curtains behind him stirred, and the air that wafted into the room was damp and cool across his bare shoulders. His eyes had adjusted enough to make out the outline of the wheelchair in the corner.
    Keeping his weight on his right hip, he let himself slide off the edge. His right hand shot out to grasp the nightstand. Standing up straight was impossible.
    Bent at the waist, both hands now on the edge of the nightstand, Thomas worked away from the support of the bed. He hopped once, rewarded by a stab of pain so agonizing that he gasped aloud. He hopped again, closing the distance toward the chair.
    He leaned his weight hard against the nightstand, balanced on his right arm, reaching out for the wall with his left. An inch at a time, he crabbed along the wall. A final, ungainly lunge brought him to the chair, and it rolled backward a few inches until its back thumped the wall.
    Hunched over, both hands clinging to the wicker, he considered how to turn so that he might sit down. He realized that he could now see the chair, including the woolen blanket spread over its back. He turned ever so slightly and looked toward the light. The figure stood in the doorway, lamp in hand.
    â€œYou are a determined young fellow.” Alvina glided into the room on bare feet, wearing a long nightgown and robe. She lit the gaslight and turned it up, the shadows dancing around the room. Satisfied, she turned back to Thomas, who waited by the chair like a desperate hunchback.
    â€œSo,” she said.
    â€œI’m almost there.” Thomas tried to sound lighthearted and gallant.
    â€œIndeed you are. Here,” she said. As she drew close, he could smell the fragrance that enveloped her as if she stood perpetually in a field of blossoms. “Put your arm over my shoulders.” As skillfully as if she had practiced that very maneuver dozens of times, she hooked the chair with a toe and turned Thomas at the same time. She was strong and practiced. “Now,” she